


Bloodbath

by Feytwilight



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 18:36:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feytwilight/pseuds/Feytwilight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blurb-Why DI Joseph Chandler couldn't bring himself to go into Terry Thrapston's bathroom, some things that are deeply buried occasionally float to the surface.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloodbath

**Author's Note:**

> During S04E02

Drip…  
His father used to take him sailing. They would take out the skiff and have a picnic out on the shinning water, just him and dad. He remembered those days as being bright, sunny, full of laughter. He hadn’t been out on the water since that day, the day that his father left him and his mother.

Drip…  
She couldn’t handle it. He was young and hurt; he didn’t understand what death really meant. He tried to be there for her, be the man of the house, he did try. She barely even looked at him after the funeral. He didn’t understand why. Was it his fault somehow? His house was full of strangers now, coming and going at all hours. They yammered to the ceiling, laid out tarot cards, and brought echoing sobs to his mother after they left. He began to hate them, those strangers.

Drip…  
When he came home from school that day, he set his books down on the foyer table and called to his mother that he was home. He had gotten high marks in all his courses and wanted to show them to her. Surely she would be proud of him. She would at least look at him, right? He went up the staircase and to her bedroom. He knocked before he entered. The room was dark, the curtains drawn, but he heard a sound coming from her private bathroom…

Drip…Drip…  
He went to the open door of the bathroom and looked in. He stared, his body frozen. His mother lay in the clawed foot tub, surrounded by red, by blood. The faucet dripped a clean drop of pure water into the overfull bath. The floor was covered with a red shinning pool. The boy saw his mother floating in the water her hair reaching out around her like little snakes. Her eyes stared up at the ceiling, one red slit wrist hanging over the lip of the bath. He counted the slow drips and couldn’t stop. 

Drip…Drip…Drip…

One, two, three… Chandler forced himself out of his memory and tried not to count the dripping sounds coming from Terry Thrapston's bathroom as they lifted her from the bath. He took his death grip away from the railing as his mobile rang.


End file.
